


illecebrous

by kovu



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Dubious Morality, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-05 00:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10293737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kovu/pseuds/kovu
Summary: Percival wants to throttle whatever idiotic vampire that thought it was a dandy idea to let a mere fledgling, who was hardly a few days turned, run amok. Unsupervised. Onhisterritory, no less.





	

**Author's Note:**

> me @ colin farrell after watching the movie fright night: [i lived bitch.jpeg]

It’s the dead of night when his heightened senses catch a whiff of the smell, with the sun out of sight and the delicate embrace of the summer night breeze being his only company. As he paces home from an unstrained night of being hunched over a desk, the careless wind lightly caresses his face, revealing a foreign scent distinctively not human.

In spite of the never-ending hustle and bustle that’s usually brewing twenty-four seven inside New York, the moonlight painted streets are luckily barren enough that no soul is present to hear the inhuman snarl that rips through his chest, anger swelling within as fierce predatory instincts rumble at him to drive away the uninvited stranger from the territory he’s managed to ruthlessly claim for himself.

With quick strides, his fingernails have already lengthened into cruel-looking claws by the time he discovers the source of the smell, hidden within the sanctuary of an isolated alleyway.

He scrutinizes the intruder – a potential foe if the stranger doesn’t immediately wise up to Percival’s threat – assessing the other vampire for potential vulnerabilities; the predator clawing inside Percival searching for any possible weaknesses that could be exploited. What he uncovers is simply jarring, making him halt in his forbidding steps and cease the low growling that was escaping from his throat.

Quivering in his threadbare clothing, the figure attempting to blend into the shadows truly makes a pathetic picture, lacking all the pristine and confident qualities usually associated with their kind.

That’s not to say the stranger is unattractive, with his sharp cheekbones and firm jawline. Regarding him steadily, Percival would even go as far as to call him beautiful – if the gaunt lines of hunger and ill health written on his face weren’t severely evident.

Glazed eyes touched with sickness, he seems to struggle with even the simply burden of standing, leaning most of his weight against the alleyway wall. If the undead were physically capable of sweating, Percival imagines there would be a sheen of perspiration coating the intruder’s skin to truly help paint the picture of illness the vampire is currently showcasing.

While seeing a sickly vampire is an undoubtedly abnormal occurrence, there’s something else about the stranger that throws Percival off balance: his scent.

The subtle aroma hanging in the air around them certainly belongs to a vampire, but upon being closer, he realizes the scent still has the freshness of death still clinging to it, something only a newly-turned vampire would have. A fledgling, his mind supplies.

His burning ire changes direction completely, steering from the afflicted creature in front of him and towards the unknown sire of the fledgling instead.

Percival wants to throttle whatever idiotic vampire that thought it was a dandy idea to let a mere fledgling, who was hardly a few days turned, run amok. Unsupervised. On _his_ territory, no less.

Said fledgling is currently trembling against the bricked wall, hunching in on himself to make himself appear smaller; whether it was from past self-preservation instincts he learned from his mortal life, or the newly-gifted vampire senses he recently obtained, even his feverish conscious could make out who the more dangerous predator in the alley was.

Most vampires use fledglings as a way to flaunt their advanced social status. Fledgling’s don’t typically survive if they’re spawned from weak sires, which is why you’ll only see them under the arms of ancient, more powerful vampires.

Despite his own age, the idea of having a fledgling of his own never quite appealed to Percival.

For one, there was the fact that the task of hunting for himself would quickly turn into hunting for two, because newborn fledglings are simply incapable of inquiring blood without massacring a whole town, due to it taking months to gain some semblance of control over their new thirst for blood.

There’s also to take into account the compelling bond that forms between a sire and their progeny. He’s seen first-hand the effect of losing your fledgling can have on a sire, which only further underlines his reluctance. Despite the benefit of having a fiercely loyal companion by your side throughout an otherwise lonely eternity, there are reasons creatures of the night rarely turn others.

“It’s equivalent to losing a limb, but worse.” An older vampire, who had recently lost her own fledgling during a territorial dispute, explained to him absentmindedly, her hollow eyes seemingly fixed somewhere in the distance. A few months later, said vampire took her own life via staking.

“Where’s your sire?” Percival questions, placing a grip on the back of the fledgling’s slender neck, his firm hand not quite gentle but neither harsh.

The boy flinches under the unfamiliar touch and Percival's sudden proximity, dark eyes dancing with anxiety. “W-what?”

Percival breaths through his nose. He should just snap the fledgling’s neck and be done with it. Vampire laws would state he has every right to do so, after all.

“Your _sire_.” Percival repeats himself instead in clipped syllables, not bothering to hide the irritation coating his tone, all while shaking the boy from the nape of his neck like one would do to an unruly dog. “Where. Are. They?”

The fledgling shakes his head, blatant confusion creasing between his brows. “I d-don’t understand, sir...”

The boy suddenly tenses, and Percival’s can hear the origin. A group of humans reeking of alcohol walk obliviously pass the alleyway, completely unaware of the simmering danger currently trembling in need within the back street.

The fledgling attempts to make an unstable step towards the mouth of the alley, but Percival’s grasp on him tightens, a clear warning. No matter how easy on the eyes the younger man is, he won’t risk the knowledge of vampires leaking out; humans have enough sneaking suspicions about their kind as it is.

The fledgling lets out a desperate keen, but somehow manages to restrain his desire, much to Percival’s utter surprise. Nevertheless, his self-control seems to come with a price, as he abruptly gasps and curls further in on himself, clutching his own abdomen from what Percival speculates is insatiable hunger.

“Please...it hurts, it hurts.”

“Yes, I imagine it does,” Percival tsked with a click of his tongue. “When’s the last night you’ve fed?”

“I’ve tried eating, but everything tastes of ash... and the food I manage to swallow down doesn’t stay in my stomach for very long.”

The answer causes an uneasy frown to settle upon Percival’s features. Surely the boy has been fed actual nourishment from his sire since he’s been turned? Newborn vampires are notorious for being insatiable little beasts their first few months, the streets would be bathed in blood if he’s truly gone this long without feeding.

“Is this my punishment for abandoning God? For abandoning Ma and the church?”

Percival doesn’t offer his fevered ramblings with a reply, not one to willingly ponder the afterlife and such, especially with the numerous so-called sins he’s committed throughout his immortality. As they say, fear is a beast that feeds on attention.

Another wave of hunger seems to hit him, and Percival is forced to relinquish his steady grip on the boy when the fledgling falls to knees with a broken sob.

Hesitant fingers clasp onto one the legs of Percival’s trousers, the expression curtaining the boy’s face matching the despair his rasping voice. “Please...” At this stage of hunger, Percival could likely drive a stake into the fledgling’s non-beating heart and the boy would probably consider it a blessing.

Leveling his gaze onto the pitiful thing, Percival spots puncture wounds impairing the skin of the fledgling where the shoulder meets neck. The boy’s recent transformation would’ve erased any visible scars or wounds previously marring his mortal body, but this specific mark given to him by his sire on the night of his conversion will remain with him for the rest of his immortality.

“This mark – tell me who gave you this mark, and I will help ease your pain.” Maybe a name will able Percival to track down the neglectful sire and paw off their missing progeny. He’d tear them a new one, of course, for their gross negligence, and there will certainly be unpleasant consequences for allowing a starving fledgling to aimlessly wander the streets of Percival’s territory uninvited.

Down on his knees, recollection promptly clouds the boy’s face, his own hand coming up to stroke the modest fang marks. “Mr. Grindelwald...”

Brain shutting down for a shaved second in pure shock, Percival tenses like a bowstring at the revealed name – the one belonging to no other than the renowned fanatic trying his damnedest to uncloak the tightly concealed existence of vampires, all while advocating the enslavement of mortals. Percival assumed his crazed shenanigans were limited to Europe, but it appears otherwise.

Why Grindelwald would bother shouldering the responsibility of a progeny is anyone’s guess. Power, perhaps? Some vampires claim they can smell the potential a mortal has via blood, but Percival doesn’t buy it. The shivering creature in front of him is just further proof of his belief.

“He promised to take me away, but...” The fledgling starts again, but begins shaking his head with great distress. Percival sympathizes, Grindelwald has a well-known penchant for throwing away things that no longer serve a purpose or benefit him. But even so, abandoning your progeny is an exceptionally cruel thing to do, as-well as heavily frowned upon.

Not that a man such as Gellert Grindelwald cares about indulging in acts that would otherwise be considered disgraceful to others.

The smartest action to take would be to hand the fledgling over to The Undead Congress...but Percival is well aware his fellow associates will strike the boy down within seconds, ordering his extermination without batting an eyelash. There’s absolutely no way they’ll allow a fledgling transformed by that despicable vampire to freely walk this earth.

It would be such an absolute waste, he thinks.

“Get up.” He orders, hauling the other up by the elbow and onto unsteady legs. Percival’s own long gone sire, who was practically fanatical when it came to abiding The Vampire Law, would be turning in his coffin if he knew what Percival was about to do.

“What’s your name, boy?” He asks, deftly folding back the sleeve of his jacket and the button-down shirt underneath it to reveal his sinuous forearm.

“Credence, sir...” The fledgling answers, eyeing him warily, the mistrust in his tearful gaze obvious but nonetheless smart enough to know running wouldn’t get him very far.

Percival presses his fangs against his own wrist, piercing into the flesh of his arm until blood begins to steep through, a rivulet of warm liquid slowly trickling down his skin. The blood vigorously coursing through his veins is far from fresh – being an older vampire allows privileges such as being able to survive longer without hunting – but the freshness probably matters little to a malnourished fledgling.

“Drink.” Percival demands, holding his bleeding wrist out.

“W-What?” The fledgling – Credence, Percival reminds himself – stutters in response, struggling to contain the horror in his voice.

Despite his conspicuous fear, the copper in the air evidently causes the irises of Credence’s eyes to turn crimson, his mouth lolling open unconsciously to reveal protruded fangs. A pale hand comes up to shakily grip Percival’s wrist, seemingly entranced by his blood

“ _Drink_.” Percival repeats, much more gently, his voice lowering into an inviting purr.

It doesn’t take much more coaxing after that. Coerced by instinct and hunger, Credence latches on.

A mewl escapes Credence’s mouth at the first pearl of metallic liquid hitting his tongue, his ivory canines attempting to penetrate deeper. A familiar warmth improperly stirs in the pit of Percival’s stomach in response to the desperate noise – which he hastily stomps down, favoring his focus instead on the painful sensation of sharply digging fangs.

With every gulp of life essence, the feverish haze previously clouding Credence’s half-lidded eyes is further replaced by flooding euphoria. Drinking with an unquenchable drive, small shivers ripple down his spine, overstimulated with pleasure from the sweet release of anguish.

Huddling closer, Credence leaned into the solid weight of Percival’s chest, primitive instincts already labeling the older vampire as _safe_ and _protector_ – attributes that woefully should’ve been affiliated with Credence’s actual sire.

When Percival determines the boy has had enough for the time being, he withdraws his arm, though a petulant Credence tries to chase his wrist with a displeased whine; a stern stare halts his greediness, however.

Blood stains the fledgling’s mouth and chin, evidence of a messy habit that Percival with have to train out of the boy – condition him to smoothly drain a human without leaving a single drop of blood behind for other mortals to question.

He’ll shape this beautiful boy in all the right ways Grindelwald refused to.

He extracts a spare handkerchief from within the safe confines of his pocket, wiping the fledgling’s face clean. Credence inattentively allows it, his expression radiating a portrait of deep satisfaction. Even from just the small amount of blood he’s been gifted, Credence already appears less...dead. Less sallow.

(Just because you are a walking, sentient corpse doesn’t mean should _look_ like one.)

 _He even seems a little bit drunk off my blood,_ Percival humors to himself as the fledgling blinks owlishly at him. If this was indeed the first time Credence has fed since his turning, his current lack of mental faculty wouldn’t be at all unreasonable.

“Come along, Credence.” Percival says, stuffing the now-discolored cloth back into his pocket.

He doesn’t need turn around to know that his brand-new fledgling is shadowing him home.


End file.
